"That is a remarkable sentence," said Edith. "Do you mind saying it again?"

Mrs. Aylmer looked at her and smiled.

"I won't say it again," she said, "for it does not fit the circumstance. You do not toil."

"But indeed I do; I work extremely hard—often eight or nine hours a day."

"Good gracious! How crushing! But you don't look bad."

"I have no intention of being bad, for I enjoy my work. I am studying to be a lady doctor."

"Oh, don't," said Mrs. Aylmer. She immediately drew down her veil and seated herself in such a position that the light should not fall on her face.

"I have heard of those awful medical women," she said, after a pause, "and I assure you the mere idea of them makes me ill. I hope they will never become the fashion. You expect medical knowledge in a man, but not in a woman. My dear, pray don't stare at me; you may discover that I have some secret disease which I do not know of myself. I do not wish it found out even if it exists. Please keep your eyes off me."

"I am not going to diagnose your case, if that is what you mean," replied Edith, with a smile. "I am by no means qualified: I have to pass my exams in America."

"Thank you." Mrs. Aylmer sighed again. "It is a relief to know that at present you understand but little of the subject. I hope some good man may marry you and prevent your becoming that monster—a woman doctor. But now to change the subject. I am extremely anxious for my daughter to return. I have bad news for her. Can you tell me how she is?"

"Well, I think," replied Edith.

"You know her."

"Oh, yes, rather intimately. Have you not heard our news?"

"What news?"

"She is engaged to my brother."

"What?" cried Mrs. Aylmer. She sprang to her feet; she forgot in her excitement all fear of the embryo medical woman. She dropped her cloak and rushed forward to where Edith was standing and seized both her hands.

"My girl engaged to your brother! And pray who is your brother?"

"A very rising journalist, a remarkably clever man. It is, let me tell you, Mrs. Aylmer, an excellent match for your daughter."

"Oh, that remains to be seen. I don't at all know that I countenance the engagement."

"I am afraid you cannot help it now. Florence is of age. I wonder she did not write to you."

"I may not have received her letter. The fact is I have been away from home for the last day or two. But I wish she would return, as I have come on most urgent business. Pray, miss—I do not even know your name."

"Franks," replied Edith: "Edith Franks."

"Pray, Miss Franks, do not spread the story of my daughter's engagement to your brother just for a day or two. Circumstances may alter matters, and until a girl has been really led to the altar I never consider this sort of thing final. Ah! whose step is that on the stairs? I believe it is my Flo's."

Mrs. Aylmer tripped to the door, flung it open, and stood in an expectant attitude.

The next moment Florence, accompanied by Tom Franks, appeared. Mrs. Aylmer looked at him, and in a flash said, under her breath: "The future son-in-law." Then she went up to Florence and kissed her.

"Oh, mother," said Florence, looking by no means elated at this unexpected appearance of the little Mummy on the scene, "what has brought you to town?"

"Most important business, dear. I must see you immediately in your room. I assure you nothing would induce me to spend the money I did were it not absolutely necessary that I should see you at once. This gentleman, you must tell him to go, Florence; I have not a single moment to waste over him now."

"Let me introduce Mr. Franks to you, mother. Tom, this is my mother. You know, mother, that I am engaged to Mr. Franks."

"I know nothing of the kind," replied Mrs. Aylmer angrily.

Florence smiled.

"But I wrote to you, mother; I told you everything."

"Perhaps so, dear, but I didn't receive the letter. I cannot acknowledge the engagement just now. I am very much agitated. Mr. Franks, you will, I hope, excuse me. Of course I know the feelings of all young men under such circumstances, and I wish to do nothing rude or in any way impolite, but just now I must see my daughter alone."

"You had better go, Tom," said Florence. She took the key of her room out of her pocket, opened the door, and ushered her mother in.

"Now, mother," she said. "Oh, dear, the fire is out." She walked to the hearth, stooped down, and began to light the fire afresh. Mrs. Aylmer sat near the window.

"Now, mother," said Florence, just looking round her, "what have you come about?"

"I thought you would give me a welcome," said Mrs. Aylmer the less; "you used to be an affectionate girl."

"Oh, used!" said Florence. "But people change as they grow older. Sometimes I think I have not any heart."

"But you have engaged yourself to that man. I presume you love him."

"No, I don't love him at all."

"Flo, it is impious to hear your talk; it is just on a par with those awfully clever papers of yours—those stories and those articles. You have made a terrible sensation at Dawlish. You are becoming notorious, my dear. It is awful for a little widow like me to have a notorious daughter. You must stop it, Flo; you really must!"

"Come, mother, I will get you a cup of tea. What does it matter what the Dawlish people say? You will spend the night, of course?"

"You and I, my dear, will spend some of the night in the train."

"Now, mother, what does this mean?"

"Listen, Flo. Yes, you may get me a cup of tea and a new-laid egg, if you have such a thing."

"But I have not."

"Then a rasher of bacon done to a turn and a little bit of toast. I can toast the bread myself. You are not at all badly off in this nice room, but——"

"Go on, mother, go on; do explain why you have come."

"It is your aunt, dear; she is very ill indeed. She is not expected to recover."

"What, Aunt Susan?"

"Yes, she has had a serious illness and has taken a turn for the worse. It is double pneumonia, whatever that means. Anyhow, it is frightfully fatal, and the doctors have no hope. I went to see her."

"When you heard she was ill, mother?"

"No, I didn't hear she was ill. I felt so desperate about you and the extraordinary sentiments you were casting wholesale upon the world that I could stand it no longer, and when you sent me that last cheque I thought I would make a final appeal to Susan. So I put on my very best black silk——"

Florence now with a quick sigh resumed her duties as tea-maker. Mrs. Aylmer was fairly launched on her narrative.

"I put on my very best black silk—the one that nice, charming, clever Miss Keys sent to me—and I told Sukey that I should be away for a couple of days and that she was to expect me when she heard from me, and she was not to forward letters. I didn't expect any from you, and your letters lately have been the reverse of comforting, and I started off and got to Aylmer's Court yesterday evening. I took a cab and drove straight there, and when the man opened the door I said: 'I am Mrs. Aylmer; I have come to see my sister-in-law,' and of course there was nothing for it but to let me in, although the flunkey said: 'I don't think she is quite as bad as that, ma'am,' and I looked at him and said: 'What do you mean?' and I had scarcely uttered the words before Miss Keys, so elegantly dressed and looking such a perfect lady, tripped downstairs and said, in a kind tone: 'So you have come! I am glad you have come.' She did, Florence; those were her very words. She said: 'I am glad you have come.' It was so refreshing to hear her, and she took me into one of the spacious reception-rooms—oh! my dear child, a room which ought to be yours by-and-by—and she made me sit down, and then she told me. There have been dreadful things happening, my dear Florence, and that wicked young man whom I took such a fancy to has turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. He broke my poor, dear, warm-hearted sister-in-law's heart."

"Now, mother, why do you talk rubbish?" said Florence. "You know Aunt Susan is not warm-hearted."

"She has not been understood," said Mrs. Aylmer, beginning to sob. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away her tears. "The circumstances of her life have proved how warm her heart is," she continued. "She adopted that young man and he played her false."

"He did not," said Florence.

"He did, Flo; he did. She wanted him to marry—to make a most suitable match—and he refused her. Bertha told me all about it. He was in love with some stupid, poor, plain girl, goodness knows where. Bertha said there was no doubt of it, and he went away and broke with my poor sister, although she loved him so much and was better than twenty mothers to him. She had just offered him a thousand a year as pocket-money. You will scarcely believe it, Flo, but the ungrateful wretch gave it all up for the sake of that girl. I never heard of such a man, and to think that I should have angled—yes, I did, dear—that you should know him!"

"Here is your tea, mother. Can you not stop talking for a little? You will wear yourself out."

"What a queer, stern, cold voice you have, Florence! You are not half as interested as you used to be."

"Do drink your tea, mother."

Mrs. Aylmer was not proof against the fragrant cup. She broke a piece of toast and put it into her mouth, she sipped her tea, but nothing could stop her narrative.

"Soon after he left, that wicked young man," she resumed, "poor Susan fell ill. She got worse and worse, and what apparently was only a slight attack soon assumed serious dimensions, and there is little hope of her life, and Bertha tells me that she has altered her will or is about to alter it. I cannot quite make out whether it is done or whether it is about to be done; but anyhow, Flo, you and I go back to Aylmer's Court to-night. By hook or by crook we will show ourselves, my love, and I will take the responsibility of leading you into your aunt's room, and you shall go on your knees and beg her forgiveness. That is what I have come about, Florence. It is not too late. Poor Bertha, I can see, is quite on our side. It is not too late, my love; we will catch the very next train."

"You don't know what you are saying, mother. It is absolutely impossible for me to go."

"My dearest Flo, why?"

"Let me tell you something. You blame Mr. Trevor."

"I always blame ungrateful people," said Mrs. Aylmer, putting on a most virtuous air.

"And yet," said Florence—"yes, I will speak. Do you know who the worthless girl was for whom he gave up great wealth and a high position?"

"How can I tell? I don't want to hear her name."

"I was that girl, mother."

"What do you mean?"

"And Bertha knew it," continued Florence; "she knew it well. Oh, I dare not say much against Bertha, but I won't have Mr. Trevor abused. He found out, mother, that, worthless as I am, he loved me. Oh, mother, pity me! pity me!"

Poor Florence suddenly fell on her knees. She bowed her head on the table and burst into tears. It was not often she cried. Mrs. Aylmer did not remember seeing Florence weep since that dreadful morning when they had both fled from Cherry Court in disgrace.

"Flo," she said, "Flo!"

"Pity me, Mummy; pity me!" said Florence.

The next instant the little Mummy's arms were round her.

"Oh, I am so glad you have a heart!" said the little Mummy, "and of course I don't blame him for loving you, but I do not understand it. Bertha could not have known. She said she was quite a low sort of person. Oh, Flo, my love, this is splendid! You will marry him, of course! I don't believe Susan has altered her will. You will just get the riches in the very best possible way as his wife. I always said he was a most charming young man. It was Bertha who turned me against him. She is awfully clever, Flo, and if I really thought——"

"I dare not say anything against Bertha, mother. But I cannot go to Aylmer's Court; you must not ask it. I am engaged now to Tom Franks, and I won't break my engagement off. I am a very, very unhappy girl."



CHAPTER XLII.

BERTHA KEYS DEFEATED.

There is little doubt that Mrs. Aylmer was very ill. Step by step an attack, which was apparently at first of little moment, became serious and then dangerous. The cold became pneumonia, the pneumonia became double pneumonia, and now there was a hard fight for life. Nurses were summoned, doctors were requisitioned, everything that wealth could do was employed for the relief and the recovery of the sick woman. But there are times when Death laughs at wealth, with all its contrivances and all its hopes: when Death takes very little heed of what friends say or what doctors do. Death has his own duty to perform, and Mrs. Aylmer's time had come. Notwithstanding the most recent remedies for the fell disease, notwithstanding the care of the best nurses London could supply and the skill of the cleverest doctors, Death entered that sick-chamber and stood by that woman's pillow and whispered to her that her hour had come.

Mrs. Aylmer, propped up in her bed so that she might breathe better, her face ghastly with the terrible exertion, called Bertha to her side. She could scarcely speak, but she managed to convey her meaning to the girl.

"I am very bad; I know I shall not recover."

"You have to make your will over again," said Bertha, who was as cool as cool could be in this emergency. Not one of the nurses could be more collected or calm than Bertha. She herself would have made a splendid nurse, for she had tact and sympathy, and the sort of voice which never grated on the ear. The doctors were almost in love with her: they thought they had never seen so capable a girl, so grave, so quiet, so suitably dressed, so invaluable in all emergencies.

Mrs. Aylmer could scarcely bear Bertha out of her sight, and the doctors said to themselves: "Small wonder!"

On the afternoon of the day when Mrs. Aylmer the less went to see Florence in London, Mrs. Aylmer the great went down another step in the dark valley. The doctor said that she might live for two or three days more, but that he did not think it likely. The disease was spreading, and soon it would be impossible for her to breathe. She was frightened. She had not spent a specially good life. She had given, it is true, large sums in charity, but she had not really ever helped the poor, and had not brought a smile to the lip or a tear of thankfulness to the eye. She had lived a hard life; she had thought far more of herself than of her neighbour, and now that she was about to die it seemed to her that she was not ready. For the first time, all the importance of money faded from her mind. No matter how rich she was and how great, she would have to leave the world with a naked, unclothed soul. She could not take any of her great possessions with her, nor could she offer to her Maker a single thing which would satisfy Him, when He made up the balance of her account. She was frightened about herself.

"Bertha," she said to her young companion, "come here, Bertha."

Bertha bent over her.

"Is it true that I am not going to get better?"

"You are very ill," said Bertha; "you ought to make your will."

"But I have made it: what do you mean?"

"I thought," said Bertha, "that"—she paused, then she said gravely: "you have not altered it since Maurice Trevor went away. I thought that you had made up your mind that he and Florence Aylmer were not to inherit your property."

"Of course I have," said the sick woman, a frightened, anxious look coming into her eyes. "Not that it much matters," she added, after a pause. "Florence is as good as another, and if Maurice really cares for her——"

"Oh, impossible," said Bertha; "you know you do not wish all your estates, your lands, your money, to pass into the hands of that wicked, deceitful girl."

"I have heard," said Mrs. Aylmer, still speaking in that gasping voice, "that Florence is doing great things for herself in London."

"What do you mean?"

"She is considered clever. She is writing very brilliantly. After all, there is such a thing as literary fame, and if at the eleventh hour she achieves it, why, she as well as another may inherit my wealth, and I am too tired, Bertha, too tired to worry now."

"You know she must not have your property!" said Bertha. "I will send for Mr. Wiltshire: you said you would alter the will: it is only to add a codicil to the last one, and the deed is done."

"As you please," said Mrs. Aylmer.

Bertha hurried away.

Mr. Wiltshire, Mrs. Aylmer's lawyer, lived in the nearest town, five miles distant. Bertha wrote him a letter and sent a man on horseback to his house. The lawyer arrived about nine o'clock that evening.

"You must see her at once: she may not live till the morning," said Bertha. There was a pink spot on each of Bertha's cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.

"I made my client's will six months ago. All her affairs are in perfect order. What does this mean?" said Mr. Wiltshire.

"Mrs. Aylmer and I have had a long conversation lately, and I know Mrs. Aylmer wants to alter her will," said Bertha. "Mr. Trevor has offended her seriously: he has repudiated all her kindness and left the house."

"Dear, dear!" said the lawyer; "how sad!"

"How ungrateful, you mean!" said Bertha.

"That is quite true. How different from your conduct, my dear young lady."

As the lawyer spoke, he looked full into Bertha's excited face.

"Ah!" said Miss Keys, with a sigh, "if I had that wealth I should know what to do with it; for instance, you, Mr. Wiltshire, should not suffer."

Now, Mr. Wiltshire was not immaculate. He had often admired Bertha: he had thought her an extremely taking girl. It had even occurred to him that, under certain conditions, she might be a very suitable wife for him. He was a widower of ten years' standing.

"I will see my client now that I have come," he said, rising. "Perhaps you had better prepare her for my visit."

"She knows you are coming. I will take you up at once."

"But it may be too great a shock."

"Not at all; she is past all that sort of thing. Come this way."

Bertha and the lawyer entered the heavily-curtained, softly carpeted room. Their footsteps made no sound as they crossed the floor. The nurses withdrew and they approached the bedside. Bertha had ink and paper ready to hand. The lawyer held out his hand to Mrs. Aylmer.

"My dear, dear friend," he said, in that solemn voice which he thought befitting a death-bed and which he only used on these special occasions, "this is a most trying moment; but if I can do anything to relieve your mind, and to help you to a just disposition of the great wealth with which Providence has endowed you, it may ease your last moments."

"Yes," said Mrs. Aylmer, in a choking voice, "they are my last moments; but I think all my affairs are settled."

Bertha looked at him and withdrew. Her eyes seemed to say: "Take my part, and you will not repent it."

Mr. Wiltshire immediately took his cue.

"I am given to understand that Mr. Trevor has offended you," he said; "is that so?"

"He has, mortally; but I am too ill to worry now."

"It will be easy to put a codicil to your will if you have any fresh desires with regard to your property," said Mr. Wiltshire.

"I am dying, Mr. Wiltshire. When you come to face death, you don't much care about money. It cannot go with you, you know."

"But it can stay behind you, my dear madam, and do good to others."

"True, true."

"I fear, I greatly fear that Mr. Trevor may squander it," said Mr. Wiltshire slowly.

"I have no one else to leave it to."

"There is that charming and excellent girl; but dare I suggest it?"

"Which charming and excellent girl?"

"Your secretary and companion, Miss Bertha Keys."

"Ay," said Mrs. Aylmer, "but I should be extremely sorry that she should inherit my money."

"Indeed, and why? No one has been more faithful to you. I know she does not expect a farthing; it would be a graceful surprise. She has one of the longest heads for business I have ever come across; she is an excellent girl."

"Write a codicil and put her name into it," said Mrs. Aylmer fretfully; "I will leave her something."

Pleased even with this assent, somewhat ungraciously given, the lawyer now sat down and wrote some sentences rapidly.

"The sum you will leave to her," he said: "ten, twenty, thirty, forty, shall we say fifty thousand pounds, my dear Mrs. Aylmer?"

"Forty—fifty if you like—anything! Oh, I am choking—I shall die!" cried Mrs. Aylmer.

Mr. Wiltshire hastily inserted the words "fifty thousand pounds" in the codicil. He then took a pen, and called two of the nurses into the room.

"You must witness this," he said. "Please support the patient with pillows. Now, my dear Mrs. Aylmer, just put your name there."

The pen was put into the trembling hand.

"I am giving my money back to—but what does this mean?" Mrs. Aylmer pushed the paper away.

"Sign, sign," said the lawyer; "it is according to your instructions; it is all right. Sign it."

"Poor lady! It is a shame to worry her on the very confines of the grave," said one of the nurses angrily.

"Just write here; you know you have the strength. Here is the pen."

The lawyer put the pen into Mrs. Aylmer's hand. She held it limply for a minute and began to sign. The first letter of her Christian name appeared in a jagged form, the next letter was about to begin when the hand fell and the pen was no longer grasped in the feeble fingers.

"I am about to meet my Maker," she said, with a great sob; "send for the clergyman. Take that away."

"I shall not allow the lady to be worried any longer," said one of the nurses, with flashing eyes.

Mr. Wiltshire was defeated; so was Bertha Keys. The clergyman came and sat for a long time with the sick woman. She listened to what he had to say and then put a question to him.

"I am stronger than I was earlier in the day. I can do what I could not do a few hours back. Oh, I know well that I shall never recover, but before I go hence I want to give back what was entrusted to me."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"I mean my money, my wealth; I wish to return it to God."

"Have you not made your will? It is always right that we should leave our affairs in perfect order."

"I wish to make a fresh will, and at once. My lawyer, Mr. Wiltshire, has come and gone. He wanted me to sign a codicil which would have been wicked. God did not wish it, so He took my strength away. I could not sign the codicil, but now I can sign a fresh will which may be made. If I dictate a fresh will to you, and I put my proper signature, and two nurses sign it, will it be legal?"

"Quite legal," replied the clergyman.

"I will tell you my wishes. Get paper."

The minister crossed the room, took a sheet of paper from a table which stood in the window, and prepared to write.

Mrs. Aylmer's eyes were bright, her voice no longer trembling, and she spoke quickly.

"I, Susan Aylmer, of Aylmer's Court, Shropshire, being quite in my right mind, leave, with the exception of a small legacy of fifty pounds a year to my sister-in-law, Mrs. Aylmer, of Dawlish, all the money I possess to two London hospitals to be chosen by my executor.—Have you put all the money I possess?" she enquired.

"Yes; but is your will fair?" he said. "Have you no other relations to whom you ought to leave some of your wealth?"

"I give all that I possess back to God. He gave me my wealth, and He shall have it again," repeated Mrs. Aylmer; and she doubtless thought she was doing a noble thing.

This brief will was signed without any difficulty by the dying woman and attested by the two nurses. Two hours later, the rich woman left her wealth behind her and went to meet her God.



CHAPTER XLIII.

MRS. AYLMER'S WILL.

Nothing would induce Florence to go to Aylmer's Court and Mrs. Aylmer the less, in great distress of mind, was forced to remain with her in her flat that evening.

Florence gave her the very best that the flat contained, sleeping herself on the sofa in her sitting-room.

Mrs. Aylmer sat up late and talked and talked until she could talk no longer. At last Florence got her into bed, and then went to visit Edith in her room.

"You don't look well," said Edith; "your engagement has not improved you. What is the matter?"

"I don't exactly know what is the matter," said Florence. "I am worried about mother's visit. My aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, is dying. She is a very rich woman. Mother is under the impression that, if she and I went to Aylmer's Court, Mrs. Aylmer might leave me her property. I don't want it; I should hate to have it. I have learned in the last few months that money is not everything. I don't want to have Aunt Susan's money."

"Well," replied Edith, staring her full in the face, "that is the most sensible speech you have made for a long time. I have closely studied the question of economics, and have long ago come to the conclusion that the person of medium income is the only person who is truly happy. I am even inclined to believe that living from hand to mouth is the most enviable state of existence. You never know how the cards will turn up; but the excitement is intense. When I am a doctor, I shall watch people's faces with intense interest, wondering whether, when their next illness comes on, they will send for me; then there will be the counting up of my earnings, and putting my little money by, and living just within my means. And then I shall have such wide interests besides money: the cure of my patients, their love and gratitude to me afterwards. It is my opinion, Florence, that the more we live outside money, and the smaller place money takes in the pleasures of our lives, the happier we are; for, after all, money can do so little, and I don't think any other people can be so miserable as the vastly rich ones."

"I agree with you," said Florence.

"It is more than Tom does," replied Edith, looking fixedly at her. "After all, Florence, are you not in some ways too good for my brother?"

"In some ways too good for him?" repeated Florence. She turned very white. "You don't know me," she added.

"I don't believe I do, and, it occurs to me, the more I am with you the less I know you. Florence, is it true that you have a secret in your life?"

"It is quite true," said Florence, raising her big dark eyes and fixing them on the face of her future sister-in-law.

"And is it a secret that Tom knows nothing about?"

"A secret, Edith, as you say, that Tom knows nothing about."

"How very dreadful! And you are going to marry him holding that secret?"

"Yes; I shall not reveal it. If I did, he would not marry me."

"But what is it, my dear? Won't you even tell me?"

"No, Edith. Tom marries me for a certain purpose. He gets what he wants. I do not feel that I am doing wrong in giving myself to him; but, wrong or right, the thing is arranged: why worry about it now?"

"You are a strange girl. I am sorry you are going to marry my brother. I do not believe you will be at all happy, but, as I have said already, I have expressed my opinion."

"The marriage is to take place quite quietly three weeks from now," said Florence. "We have arranged everything. We are not going to have an ordinary wedding. I shall be married in my travelling-dress. Tom says he can barely spend a week away from his editorial work, and he wants me to live in a flat with him at first."

"Oh, those flats are so detestable," said Edith; "no air, and you are crushed into such a tiny space; but I suppose Tom will sacrifice everything to the sitting-rooms."

"He means to have a salon: he wants to get all the great and witty and wise around us. It ought to be an interesting future," said Florence in a dreary tone.

Edith gazed at her again.

"Well," she said, after a pause, "I suppose great talent like yours does content one. You certainly are marvellously brilliant. I read your last story, and thought it the cleverest of the three. But I wish you were not so pessimistic. It is terrible not to help people. It seems to me you hinder people when you write as you do."

"I must write as the spirit moves me," said Florence, in a would-be flippant voice, "and Tom likes my writing; he says it grows on him."

"So much the worse for Tom."

"Well, I will say good-night now, Edith. I am tired, and mother will be disturbed if I go to bed too late."

Florence went into her own flat, shut and locked the door, and, lying down, tried to sleep. But she was excited and nervous, and no repose would come to her. Up to the present time, since her engagement, she had managed to keep thought at bay; but now thoughts the most terrible, the most dreary, came in like a flood and banished sleep. Towards morning she found herself silently crying.

"Oh, why cannot I break off my engagement with Tom Franks? Why cannot I tell Maurice Trevor the truth?" she said to herself.

Early the next day Mrs. Aylmer the less received a telegram from Bertha Keys. This was to announce the death of the owner of Aylmer's Court. Mrs. Aylmer the less immediately became almost frantic with excitement. She wanted to insist on Florence accompanying her at once to the Court. Florence stoutly refused to stir an inch. Finally the widow was obliged to go off without her daughter.

"There is little doubt," she said, "that we are both handsomely remembered. I, of course, have my fifty pounds a year—that was settled on me many years ago—but I shall have far more than that now, and you, my poor child, will have a nice tidy fortune, ten to twelve or twenty thousand pounds, and then if you will only marry Maurice Trevor, who inherits all the rest of the wealth, how comfortable you will be! I suppose you would like me to live with you at Aylmer's Court, would you not?"

"Oh, mother, don't," said poor Florence. "I have a feeling which I cannot explain that Mrs. Aylmer will disappoint everyone. Don't count on her wealth, mother. Oh, mother, don't think so much of money, for it is not the most important thing in the world."

"Money not the most important thing in the world!" said Mrs. Aylmer, backing and looking at her daughter with bright eyes of horror. "Flo, my poor child, you really are getting weak in your intellect."

A few moments afterwards she left, sighing deeply as she did so, and Florence, to her own infinite content, was left behind.

The next few days passed without anything special occurring; then the news of Mrs. Aylmer's extraordinary will was given to Florence in her mother's graphic language.

"Although she is dead, poor thing, she certainly always was a monster," wrote the widow. "I cannot explain to you what I feel. I have begged of Mr. Trevor to dispute the will; but, would you believe it?—unnatural man that he is, he seems more pleased than otherwise.

"My little money is still to the fore, but no one else seems to have been remembered. As to that poor dear Bertha Keys, she has not been left a penny. If she had not saved two or three hundred pounds during the time of her companionship to that heathenish woman, she would now be penniless. It is a fearful blow, and I cannot think for which of our sins it has been inflicted on us. It is too terrible, and the way Maurice Trevor takes it is the worst of all."

When Florence read this letter, she could not help clapping her hands.

"I cannot understand it," she said to herself; "but a great load seems to have rolled away from me. Of course, I never expected Aunt Susan's money, but mother has been harping upon it as long as I can remember. I don't think Maurice wanted it greatly. It seemed to me that that money brought a curse with it. I wonder if things are going to be happier now. Oh, dear, I am glad—yes, I am glad that it has not been left to any of us."

Florence's feelings of rapture, however, were likely soon to be mitigated. Her wedding-day was approaching.

Mrs. Aylmer the less, who had at first told Florence that she could not on any account marry for three or four months, owing to the sad death in the family, wrote now to say that the sooner she secured Tom Franks the better.

"Maurice Trevor is a pauper," she said, "not worth any girl's serious consideration. Marry Mr. Franks, my dear Florence; he is not up to much, but doubtless he is the best you can get. You need not show the smallest respect to Susan Aylmer; the wedding need not be put off a single hour on her account."

Nor did Flo nor Tom intend to postpone the wedding. Mrs. Aylmer had not been loved by Florence, and, as the couple were to be married quietly, there was not the least occasion why the ceremony should be delayed. Florence had not a trousseau, in the ordinary sense of the word.

"I have no money," she said, looking full at Edith.

Tom Franks happened to come into the room at the time.

"What are you talking about?" he said. "By the way, here is a letter for you."

As he spoke, he laid a letter on the table near Florence's side. She glanced at it, saw that it was in the handwriting of Bertha Keys, and did not give it a further thought.

"Flo is thinking about her trousseau; all brides require trousseaux," said Edith, who, although unorthodox in most things, did not think it seemly that a bride should go to the altar without fine clothes.

"But why should we worry about a trousseau?" replied Tom. "I take Florence for what she is, not for her dress; and I can give you things in Paris," he added, looking at her. "I have some peculiar ideas, and my own notions with regard to your future dress. You want a good deal of rich colour, and rich stuffs, and nothing too girlish. You are very young, but you will look still younger if you are dressed somewhat old, as I mean to dress you. We will get your evening dress in Paris. I am not a rich man, but I have saved up money for the purpose."

"I don't really care about clothes at all," said Florence.

"I know that; but you will change your mind. With your particular style, you must be careful how you dress. I will manage it. Don't waste your money on anything now. I want you to come to me as you are."

Tom then sat down near Florence, and began to give her particulars with regard to several flats which he had looked over. He was a keen man of business, and talked L. s. d. until the girl was tired of the subject.

"I shall take the flat in Fortescue Mansions to-morrow morning," he said finally; "it will just suit us. There is a very fine reception-room, and, what is still better, all the reception-rooms open one into the other. We must begin to give our weekly salons as soon as ever you return from your wedding tour, Florence."

"Surely you will wait until people call on Florence?" interrupted Edith. "You are too quick, Tom, for anything. You must not transgress all the ordinary rules of society."

Tom looked at his sister, shut up his firm lips, and turned away; he did not even vouchsafe to answer.

A moment later, he left the room. It was his custom when he met Florence to kiss her coldly on the forehead, and to repeat this ceremony when he left her. He did not neglect this little attention on the present occasion. As his steps, in his patent-leather boots, were heard descending the stairs, Edith saw Florence raise her handkerchief to her forehead and rub the spot which Tom's lips had touched.

"How heartily you dislike him!" said Edith. "I would not marry him if I were you."

Florence made no reply. She took up her letter and prepared to leave the room.

"Why do you go? There is a good fire here, and there is none in your room. Sit by the fire, and make yourself comfy. I am going out for a little."



CHAPTER XLIV.

BERTHA CHANGES HER TONE.

Edith pinned on her hat as she spoke, and a moment later left the flat. Florence looked around her. She sank into an easy-chair, and opened the letter. It was, as she already knew, from Bertha. She began to read it languidly, but soon its contents caused her to start; her eyes grew bright with a strange mixture of fear, relief, and apprehension. Bertha had written as follows:—

"MY DEAR FLORENCE—

"You will doubtless, long ere this, have been told of the fearful blow which the late Mrs. Aylmer of Aylmer's Court has inflicted on us all. Kind as we have been to her, and faithfully as we have served her—I allude especially here to myself—we have been cut off without a farthing whereas two monstrous establishments have been left the benefit of her wealth. The clergyman, Mr. Edwards, is responsible for this act of what I call sacrilege. She made him write a will for her just after poor Mr. Wiltshire had departed. It is, I believe, quite in proper form, and there is not a loophole of escape. Mr. Edwards knew what he was about. Mrs. Aylmer gave her money, as she thought, back to God: a very queer way of doing charity—to leave those nearest to her to starve.

"However, my dear Florence, to come to the point, I, who have spent the last five years of my life absolutely devoted to this woman, serving her hand and foot, day and night, at all times and all seasons, have not even had a ten-pound note left to me for my pains. It is true that I shall receive my salary, which happens to be a very good one, up to the end of the present quarter. After that, as far as I am concerned, I might as well never have known Aylmer's Court nor its mistress. Fortunately I was able to feather my nest to a very small extent while with her, and have a few hundred pounds with which to face the world.

"Now, Florence, I hope you are somewhat prepared for what is about to follow. It is this: I shall be obliged in the future to use my talent for my own aggrandisement. I find that it is a very marketable commodity. A few months' use of it has placed you in great comfort; it has also brought you fame, and, further, a very excellent husband. What the said future husband will say when the denouement is revealed to him—as of course revealed it will be—is more than I can say. But you must face the fact that I can no longer supply you with stories or essays. I myself will write my own stories, and send them myself to the different papers, and the golden sovereigns, my dear, will roll into my pocket, and not into yours. You will naturally say: 'How will you do this, and face the shame of your actions in the past?' But the fact is, I am not at all ashamed, nor do I mind confessing exactly what I have done. My talent is my own, and it is my opinion that the world will crowd after me all the more because I have done this daring thing, and you, my poor little understudy for the time being, will be my understudy no longer. I take the part of leading lady once for all myself. I am coming up to London to-morrow, and will call to see you, as, on consideration, I think that fourth story which you are preparing for the Argonaut might as well appear with my name to it.

"Yours very sincerely,

"BERTHA KEYS."

Florence perused this letter two or three times; then she put it in her pocket and entered her bed-room. She did not quite know what she was doing. She felt a little giddy, but there was a queer, unaccountable sense of relief all over her. On her desk lay her own neat copy of the story which she was preparing for the Argonaut. By the side of the desk also was quite a pile of letters from different publishers offering her work and good pay. These letters Tom Franks insisted on her either taking no notice of or merely writing to decline the advantageous offers. She took them up now.

"Messrs. So-and-so would be glad to see Miss Aylmer. They could offer her...." And then came terms which would have made the mouths of most girls water. Or Florence received a letter asking her if she would undertake to write three or four stories for such a paper, the terms to be what she herself liked to ask. She looked at them all wistfully. It is true she had not yet lighted a fire in her room, but she put a match to it now, in order to burn the publishers' letters. The story she was copying was about half-done. She had meant to finish it from Bertha's manuscript before she went out. She smiled to herself as she looked.

"I need never finish it now," she thought.

Just as this thought came to her she heard a tap at her door. It was a messenger with a note. She told him to wait, and opened it. It was from Franks.

"I quite forgot when I saw you an hour ago to ask you to let me have manuscript of the next story without fail this evening. Can you send it now by messenger, or shall he call again for it within a couple of hours? This is urgent.

"THOMAS FRANKS."

Florence sat down and wrote a brief reply.

"I am very sorry, but you cannot have manuscript to-night.

"FLORENCE AYLMER."

The messenger departed with this note, and Florence dressed herself to go out, and she went quickly downstairs. She walked until she saw the special omnibus which she was looking for. She was taken straight to Hampstead, and she walked up the steep hill until she found the little cottage which she had visited months ago in the late summer-time. Florence went to the door, and a neat servant with an apple-blossom face opened it.

"Is Mrs. Trevor in?" asked Florence.

"Yes, miss; what name shall I say?"

Florence gave her name: "Miss Florence Aylmer."

She was immediately ushered into the snug drawing-room, bright with firelight. She shut her eyes, and a feeling of pain went through her heart.

"The way of transgressors is very, very hard," she thought. "Shall I ever keep straight? What a miserable character I must be!"

Just then Mrs. Trevor entered the room. She had not been pleased with Florence; she had not been pleased with her manner to her son. Mothers guess things quickly, and she had guessed Maurice's secret many months ago.

Florence held out her hand wistfully, and looked full at the little widow.

"I have come to speak to you," she said. "I want to know if you will"—her lips trembled—"advise me."

"Sit down, my dear," said Mrs. Trevor. She motioned Florence to a seat, but the girl did not take it.

"I have come to you, as the only one in all the world who can help me," continued Florence. "I have something very terrible to say, and I thought perhaps you would listen, and perhaps you would advise. May I speak to you just because I am a very lonely girl and you are a woman?"

"If you put it in that way, of course you may speak," said Mrs. Trevor. "To tell you the truth, I have been displeased with you; I have thought that you have not been fair."

"To whom?" asked Florence.

"To my son Maurice."

Florence coloured; then she put her hand to her heart.

"You never replied to my letter, Mrs. Trevor."

"What was there to say?"

"Will you tell me now what you thought of it?"

Mrs. Trevor had seated herself by the fire. She held out her small hands to the grateful blaze; then she looked round at the girl.

"Sit down, child," she said; "take off your hat. If you wish to know what I really thought, I imagined that you were a little hysterical and that you had overstated things. Girls of your age are apt to do so. I was very sorry, for Maurice's sake, that you did not accept my offer; but otherwise I prefer to be alone."

"I see. Well, I must tell you now that I did not exaggerate. I have been bad through and through: quite unworthy of your attention and care: quite unworthy of Mr. Maurice's regard."

"That is extremely likely," said the mother of Mr. Maurice, drawing herself up in a stately fashion.

"Oh, don't be unkind to me; do bear with me while I tell you. Afterwards I shall go away somewhere, but I must relieve my soul. Oh, it is so sinful!"

"Speak, child, speak. Who am I that I should turn away from you?"

"Years ago," began Florence, speaking in a dreary tone, "I was at a school called Cherry Court School. While there I was assailed by a very great temptation. The patron of the school, Sir John Wallis, offered a prize on certain conditions to the girls. The prize meant a great deal, and covered a wide curriculum.

"It was a great opportunity, and I struggled hard to win; but Sir John Wallis, although he offered the prize to the school, in reality wanted a girl called Kitty Sharston, who was the daughter of his old friend, to get it.

"Kitty Sharston was supposed to be most likely to win the prize, and she did win it in the end; but let me tell you how. In the school was a girl as pupil teacher, whose name was Bertha Keys."

"What!" cried Mrs. Trevor: "the girl who has been companion to Mrs. Aylmer: whom my son has so often mentioned?"

"The very same girl. Oh, I don't want to abuse her too much, and yet I cannot tell my terrible story without mentioning her. She tempted me; she was very clever, and she tempted me mightily. She wrote the essay for me, the prize essay which was hers, not mine. Oh, I know you are shocked, I feel your hand trembling; but let me hold it; don't draw it away. She wrote the essay, and it was read aloud before all the guests and all the other girls as mine, and I won the Scholarship; yes, I won it through the essay written by Bertha Keys."

"That was very terrible, my dear. How could you bear it? How could you?"

"I went to London. You remember how I came to see you. I had very little money, just twenty pounds, and mother, who had only fifty pounds a year, could not help me, and I was so wretched that I did not know what to do. I went from one place to another offering myself as teacher, although I hated teaching and I could not teach well; but no one wanted me, and I was in despair, and I used to get so desperately hungry too. Oh, you cannot tell what it is to want a meal—just to have a good dinner, say, once a week, and bread-and-butter all the rest of the days. Oh, you do feel so empty when you live on bread-and-butter and nothing else! Then I had a letter from Bertha, and she made me a proposal. She sent with the letter a manuscript. Ah! I feel you start now."

"This is terrible!" said Mrs. Trevor. She stood up in her excitement; she backed a little way from Florence.

"You guess all, but I must go on telling you," continued the poor girl. "She sent this manuscript, and she asked me to use it as my own. She said she did not want any of the money, and she spoke specious words, and I was tempted. But I struggled, I did struggle. It was Miss Franks who really was the innocent cause of pushing me over the gulf, for she read the manuscript and said it was very clever, and she showed it to her brother, the man I am now engaged to, and he said it was clever, and it was accepted for the Argonaut almost before I knew what I was doing; and that was the beginning of everything. I was famous. Bertha was the person who wrote the stories and the essays. I was wearing borrowed plumes, and I was not a bit clever; and, oh, Mrs. Trevor, the end has come now, for Mrs. Aylmer has died and has left all her great wealth to the hospitals, and I have had a letter from Bertha. You may read it, Mrs. Trevor: do read it. This Is what Bertha says."

As Florence spoke, she thrust Bertha's letter into Mrs. Trevor's hand.

"I will ring for a light," said the widow. She approached the bell, rang it, and the little rosy-faced servant appeared.

"Tea, Mary, at once for two, and some hot cakes, and bring a lamp, please.

"I am glad and I am sorry you have told me," she said. "I will read the letter when the lamp comes. Now warm yourself.

"You poor girl," she said. "I will not touch this letter until I see you looking better.

"I will read this in another room," she said; "you would like to be alone for a little."

She left the room softly with Bertha's letter, and Florence still sat on by the fire. She sat so for some time, and presently, soothed by the warmth, and weary from all the agony she had undergone, the tired-out girl dropped asleep.



CHAPTER XLV.

"ALL THE ROSES ARE DEAD."

When she awoke she heard someone moving in the room. There was the rustling of a paper and the creak of a chair.

"Oh, Mrs. Trevor, have I told you everything?" she said, and she sprang to her feet, the color suffusing her cheeks and her eyes growing bright. "And are you going to send me out into the cold? Are you never going to speak to me again? Are you going to forsake me?"

"No, no; sit down," said a voice, and then Florence did indeed color painfully, for Mrs. Trevor was not in the room, but Maurice Trevor stood before the excited girl.

"My mother has told me the whole story," he said.

He looked perturbed, his voice shook with emotion, and his face was pale, and there was an angry scowl in his eyes. He took Florence's hand and pushed her into a chair.

"Sit down," he said. She looked up at him drearily.

"All the roses are dead," she said softly; "the time of roses is over."

"No, it is not over; it will come back again at the proper season," said Trevor; "and don't think that I—"

"But do you know—"

"I know," he answered gravely. He bowed his head; then he drew a chair forward.

"I must speak to you," he said.

"You know everything?" she repeated.

"I do," he said. "I am glad you came to mother and told her. It is true I suspected much. You know that passage in Miss Keys's handwriting which I told you about some time ago, and the identically same passage in the newspaper article which was supposed to be yours?—to a great extent my eyes were opened at that time, but not completely."

"You look very, very angry," she said.

"I am angry," he answered; "but, I think I can say with truth, not with you."

"With Bertha?"

"Please do not mention her name."

"But I have been to blame: I have been terribly weak."

"You have been terribly weak; you have been worse. You have done wrong, great wrong; but, Florence—may I call you by your Christian name?—winter comes in every year, but it is followed by spring, and spring is followed by summer, and in summer the roses bloom again, and the time of roses comes back, Florence, and it will come back even to you."

"No, no," she said, and she began to sob piteously.

"You have been so good, so more than good to me," she said. "If you had known you would have despised me."

"If I had known I should have gone straight to Miss Keys and put a stop to this disgraceful thing," was the young man's answer. "I suppose, Florence," he added, after a pause, "you, if you have time to think of me at all, pity me now because I am a penniless man."

"Oh, no, no," she replied; "it is not good for people to be too rich. I have quite come to be of that opinion."

"Thank God, then, we are both of one way of thinking because God, though He has not given you this special talent, has given you much."

"Much," she repeated, vaguely.

"Yes," he repeated, speaking earnestly: "He has given you attractiveness, great earnestness of purpose, and oh! a thousand other things. He has at least done this for you, Florence: He has made you so that in all the wide world you are the only woman for me. I can love no one but you, Florence—no one else—no one else, even though you did fall."

"You cannot: it is impossible," answered Florence. "You cannot love me now."

"I have loved you all through, and this thing does not alter my love. You see, Florence," he added, "it was not the girl who was famous that I cared for. I never did care a bit about the wonderful writing which was supposed to be yours. Far from liking it, I hated it. I never wanted a wife who would be either famous or clever."

"And Tom Franks," continued Florence, "only wants me because he thinks me clever. But he will not wish to marry me now."

"I only wanted you for yourself. Will you wait for me and let me try to make a home for you, and when I have done that, will you come to me? I am going away to Australia; I have heard of a good post there, and I am going out almost at once, and if things succeed, you and the mother can come to me, and in the meantime will you stay with her and comfort her?"

"Oh, you are too good," said poor Florence; but she did not cry now. She clasped her hands and gazed straight into the fire; then she looked up at Trevor with awe.

"God must have forgiven me when He sent you to me," she said simply.

The next moment he had clasped her in his arms.



CHAPTER XLVI.

A DENOUEMENT.

Tom Franks was seated before his desk in his office. He was a good deal perturbed. His calm was for the time being destroyed, although it wanted but a week to his wedding-day. He did not look at all like a happy bride-groom.

"It is a case of jilting," he said to himself, and he took up a letter which he had received from Florence that morning. It was very short and ran as follows:

"I cannot marry you, and you will soon know why. When you know the reason you won't want me. I am terribly sorry, but sorrow won't alter matters. Please do not expect the manuscript. Yours truly,

"FLORENCE AYLMER."

"What does the girl mean?" he said to himself. "Really, at the present moment, the most annoying part of all is the fact that I have not received the manuscript. The printers are waiting for it. The new number of the Argonaut will be nothing without it. The story was advertised in the last number, and all our readers will expect it."

A clerk came in at that moment.

"Has Miss Aylmer's manuscript come, sir?" he said. "The printers are waiting for it."

"The printers must wait, Dawson; I shall be going to see Miss Aylmer and will bring the manuscript back. Here, hand me a telegram form. I want to send a wire in a hurry."

The clerk did so. Franks dictated a few words aloud: "Will call to see you at twelve o'clock. Please remain in."

He gave the man Florence's address, and he departed with the telegram. Franks looked up at the clock.

He thought for a little longer. Anderson opened the door of his room and called him.

"Is that you, Franks?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I speak to you for a moment?"

"Certainly," replied Franks. He went into his chief's room and shut the door.

"I have been thinking, Franks," said Mr. Anderson, "whether we do well to encourage that extremely pessimistic writing which Miss Florence Aylmer supplies us with."

"Do well to encourage it?" said Franks, opening his eyes very wide.

"I have hesitated to speak to you," continued Mr. Anderson, "because you are engaged to the young lady, and you naturally, and very justly, are proud of her abilities; but the strain in which she addresses her public is beginning to be noticed, and although her talent attracts, her morbidity and want of all hope will in the end tell against the Argonaut, and even still more against the General Review. I wish you would have a serious talk with her, Franks, and tell her that unless she alters the tone of her writings—my dear fellow, I am sorry to pain you, but really I cannot accept them."

Franks uttered a bitter laugh.

"You are very likely to have your wish, sir," he said. "I am even now writing for the manuscript for the fourth story which you know was advertised in the last Argonaut."

"I believe she will always write according to her convictions."

"And that is what pains me so much," continued Mr. Anderson. "I have myself looked over her proofs, and have endeavoured to infuse a cheerful note into them; but cutting won't do it, nor will removing certain passages. The same miserable, unnatural outlook pervades every word she says. I believe her mind is made that way."

"You are not very complimentary," said Franks, almost losing his temper. He was quiet for a moment, then he said slowly: "We are very likely to have to do without Miss Aylmer. I begin to think that she is a very strange girl. She has offered to release me from my engagement; in fact, she has declared that she will not go on with it, and says that she cannot furnish us with any more manuscripts."

"Then, in the name of Heaven, what are we to do for the next number?" said Mr. Anderson. "Look through all available manuscripts at once, my dear fellow; there is not a moment to lose."

"I'll do better than that," replied Franks. "Our public expect a story by Miss Aylmer in the next number, and if possible they must have it. I have already wired to say that I will call upon her, and with your permission, as the time is nearly up, I will go to Prince's Mansions now."

"It may be best," said Mr. Anderson. He looked gloomy and anxious. "You can cut the new story a bit cannot you, Franks?"

"I will do my best, sir."

The young man went out of the room. He was just crossing his own apartment when the door was opened and his clerk came in.

"A lady to see you, sir: she says her business is pressing."

"A lady to see me! Say I am going out. I cannot see anyone at present. Who is she? Has she come by appointment?"

"She has not come by appointment, sir; her name is Miss Keys—Miss Bertha Keys."

"I never heard of her. Say that I am obliged to go out and cannot see her to-day; ask her to call another time. Leave me now, Dawson; I want to keep my appointment with Miss Aylmer."

Dawson left the room.

He then crossed the room to the peg where he kept his coat and hat, and was preparing to put them on when once again Dawson appeared.

"Miss Keys says she has come about Miss Aylmer's business, and she thinks you will not lose any time if you see her, sir."

Bertha Keys had quietly entered the apartment behind the clerk.

"I have come on the subject of Florence Aylmer and the manuscript you expect her to send you," said Bertha Keys. "Will you give me two or three moments of your valuable time?"

Dawson glanced at Franks. Franks nodded to him to withdraw, and the next moment Miss Keys and Mr. Franks found themselves alone.

Franks did not speak at all for a moment. Bertha in the meantime was taking his measure.

"May I sit down?" she said. "I am a little tired; I have come all the way from Shropshire this morning."

Franks pushed a chair towards her, but still did not speak. She looked at him, and a faint smile dawned round her lips.

"You are expecting Florence Aylmer's manuscript, are you not?" she said then.

He nodded, but his manner was as much as to say: "What business is it of yours?"

He was magnetized by the curious expression in her eyes; he thought he had never seen such clever eyes before. He was beginning to be interested in her.

"I have come about Florence's manuscript; but, all the same, you bitterly resent my intrusion. By the way, you are engaged to marry Florence Aylmer?"

"I was," replied Franks shortly; "but pardon me. I am extremely busy: if she has chosen you as her messenger to bring the manuscript, will you kindly give it to me and go?"

"How polite!" said Bertha, with a smile. "I have not brought any manuscript from Florence Aylmer; but I have brought a manuscript from myself."

Franks uttered an angry exclamation.

"Have you forced your way into my room about that?" he said.

"I have. You have received and published three stories purporting to be by the pen of Florence Aylmer. You have also published one or two articles by the same person. You are waiting for the fourth story, which was promised to the readers of the Argonaut in last month's number. The first three stories made a great sensation. You are impatient and disturbed because the fourth story has not come to hand. Here it is."

Bertha hastily opened a small packet which she held in her hand and produced a manuscript.

"Look at it," she said; "read the opening sentence. I am not in the slightest hurry; take your own time, but read, if you will, the first page. If the style is not the style of the old stories, if the matter is not equal in merit to the stories already published, then I will own to you that I came here on a false errand and will ask you to forgive me."

Franks, with still that strange sense of being mesmerized, received the manuscript from Bertha's long slim hand. He sank into his office chair and listlessly turned the pages.

He read a sentence or two and then looked up at the clock.

"I have wired to Miss Aylmer to expect me at twelve: it is past that hour now. I really must ask you to pardon me."

"Miss Aylmer will not be in. Miss Aylmer has left Prince's Mansions. I happened to call there and know what I am saying. Will you go on reading? You want your story. I believe your printers are waiting for it even now."

Franks fidgeted impatiently. Once again his eyes lit upon the page. As he read, Bertha's own eyes devoured his face. She knew each word of that first page. She had taken special and extra pains with it; it represented her best, her very best; it was strong, perfect in style, and her treatment of her subject was original; there was a note of passion and pathos, there was a deep undercurrent of human feeling in her words. Franks read to the end.

If he turned the page Bertha felt that her victory would be won—if he closed the manuscript she had still to fight her battle. Her heart beat quickly. She wondered what the Fates had in store for her.

Franks at last came to the final word; he hesitated, half looked up, then his fingers trembled. He turned the page. Bertha saw by the look on his face that he had absolutely forgotten her. She gave a brief sigh: the time of tension was over, the victory was won. She rose and approached him.

"I can take that to another house," she said.

"No, no," said Franks; "there is stuff in this. It is quite up to the usual mark. So Florence gave it to you to bring to me. Now, you know, I do not quite like the tone nor does my chief; but the talent is unmistakable."

"You will publish it, then?"

"Certainly. I see it is the usual length. If you will pardon me, as things are pressing, I will ring and give this to the printers."

"One moment first. You think that manuscript has been written by Florence Aylmer?"

"Why not? Of course it has!" He looked uneasily from the paper in his hand to the girl who stood before him. "What do you mean?"

"I have something to tell you. You may be angry with me, but I do not much care. I possess the genius, not Florence Aylmer; I am the writer of that story. Florence Aylmer wrote one thing for you, a schoolgirl essay, which you returned. I wrote the papers which the public liked; I wrote the stories which the public devoured. I am the woman of genius; I am the ghost behind Florence Aylmer; I am the real author. You can give up the false: the real has come to you at last."

"You must be telling me an untruth," said Franks. He staggered back, his face became green, his eyes flashed angrily.

"I am telling you the truth; you have but to ask Florence herself. Has she not broken off her engagement with you?"

"She has, and a good thing, too," he muttered under his breath.

"Ah! I heard those words, though you said them so low, and it is a good thing for you. You would never have been happy with a girl like Florence. I know her well. I don't pretend that I played a very nice part; but still I am not ashamed. I want money now; I did not want money when I offered my productions to Florence. I hoped that I should be a very rich woman. My hopes have fallen to the ground; therefore I take back that talent with which Nature has endowed me. You can give me orders for the Argonaut in the future. You will kindly pay me for that story. Now I think I have said what I meant to say, and I wish you good-morning."

"But you must stay a moment, Miss—I really forget your name."

"My name is Keys—Bertha Keys. Other well-known magazines will pay me for all I can write for them; but I am willing to give you the whole of my writings, say for three months, if you are willing to pay me according to my own ideas."

"What are those?"

"You must double your pay to me. You can, if you like, publish this little story about Florence and myself in some of your society gossip—I do not mind at all—or you can keep it quiet. You have but to say in one of your issues that the nom de plume under which your talented author wrote is, for reasons of her own, changed. You can give me a fresh title. The world will suspect mystery and run after me more than ever. I think that is the principal thing I have to say to you. Now, may I wish you good-morning?"

Bertha rose as she spoke, dropped a light mocking curtsey in Franks's direction, and let herself out of the room before he had time to realize that she was leaving.



CHAPTER XLVII.

FINIS.

It is, alas! true in this world that often the machinations of the wicked prosper. By all the laws of morality Bertha Keys ought to have come to condign punishment; she ought to have gone under; she ought to have disappeared from society; she ought to have been hooted and disliked wherever she showed her face.

These things were by no means the case, however. Bertha, playing a daring game, once more achieved success.

By means of threatening to take her work elsewhere she secured admirable terms for her writing—quite double those which had been given to poor Florence. She lived in the best rooms in Prince's Mansions, and before a year had quite expired she was engaged to Tom Franks. He married her, and report whispers that they are by no means a contented couple. It is known that Franks is cowed, and at home at least obeys his wife. Bertha rules with a rod of iron; but perhaps she is not happy, and perhaps her true punishment for her misdeeds has begun long ago.

Meanwhile Florence, released from the dread of discovery, her conscience once more relieved from its burden of misery, bloomed out into happiness, and also into success.

Florence wrote weekly to Trevor, and Trevor wrote to her, and his love for her grew as the days and weeks went by. The couple had to wait some time before they could really marry, but during that time Florence learned some of the best lessons in life. She was soon able to support herself, for she turned out, contrary to her expectations, a very excellent teacher. She avoided Tom Franks and his wife, and could not bear to hear the name of the Argonaut mentioned. For a time, indeed, she took a dislike to all magazines, and only read the special books which Mrs. Trevor indicated.

Kitty Sharston was also her best friend during this time of humiliation and training, and when the hour at last arrived when she was to join Trevor, Kitty said to her father that she scarcely knew her old friend, so courageous was the light that shone in Florence's eyes, and so happy and beaming was her smile.

"I have gone down into the depths," she said to Kitty, on the day when she sailed for Australia; "it is a very good thing sometimes to see one's self just down to the very bottom. I have done that, and oh! I hope, I do hope that I shall not fall again."

As to Mrs. Trevor, she also had a last word with Kitty.

"There was a time, my dear," she said, "when knowing all that had happened in the past, I was rather nervous as to what kind of wife my dear son would have in Florence Aylmer, but she is indeed now a daughter after my own heart—brave, steadfast, earnest."

* * * * *

ALWAYS ASK FOR THE DONOHUE COMPLETE EDITIONS—THE BEST FOR LEAST MONEY

Mrs. L. T. Meade

SERIES

An excellent edition of the works of this very popular author of books for girls. Printed from large type on an extra quality of paper, cover design stamped in three colors, large side title letterings, each book in glazed paper printed wrapper. Each book with a beautiful colored frontispiece. Printed wrapper, 12 mo. cloth.

1 Bad Little Hannah

2 Bunch of Cherries, A

4 Children's Pilgrimage

5 Daddy's Girl

6 Deb and the Duchess

7 Francis Kane's Fortune

8 Gay Charmer, A

9 Girl of the People, A

10 Girl In Ten Thousand, A

11 Girls of St. Wodes, The

12 Girls of the True Blue

13 Good Luck

14 Heart of Gold, The

15 Honorable Miss, The

17 Light of the Morning

18 Little Mother to Others

20 Merry Girls of England

21 Miss Nonentity

22 Modern Tomboy, A

23 Out of Fashion

24 Palace Beautiful

26 Polly, A New-Fashioned Girl

27 School Favorite

28 Sweet Girl Graduate, A

29 Time of Roses, The

30 Very Naughty Girl, A

31 Wild Kitty

32 World of Girls

33 Young Mutineer, The

All of the above books may be had at the store where this book was bought, or will be sent postage prepaid to any address at 50c each, by the publishers

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THE END